


How Lucky Can One Guy Be?

by SimplyWriting



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyWriting/pseuds/SimplyWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arcade patches up an unlucky courier on their adventures and attempts to figure just how Six manages to keep hurting himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Lucky Can One Guy Be?

Courier Six was, quite possibly, the worst choice for a courier that Arcade had ever seen. Now it wasn't that Six was lazy, far from it. If his ambitions to help the wasteland were anything to go by then he was certainly one of the better individuals here. Nor was the strange courier dishonest. He kept to his word the best he could. It wasn't like he stole packages or went through others' mail, though Arcade was sure that some couriers were less virtuous. Six was by no means dull and had a rather good sense of direction which an advantage as he navigated the Mojave. It was the simple fact that Courier Six had no physical stamina to speak of and was rather prone to getting himself injured by anything and everything. 

Arcade wasn't an athlete by any stretch of the imagination, but even he was able trek through the desert to find barrel cactus and honey mesquite for research. Courier Six, however, was not suited for the desert. Six had been cursed with the combination of pale skin, blue eyes, and a shock of messy ginger hair. The mojave sun was not kind to anyone, but it had to worse for him. Less than twenty minutes in direct sunlight and Six began to turn bright red. The courier was also afflicted with low blood pressure which was worsen by the dehydrating effects of the desert. The oddest part of the messenger's maladies was the fact that any and everything had the potential to hurt him. He would regularly visit the Old Mormon Fort with sprained joints. That's if he was lucky. More often than not, Six would have dislocated and subluxated bones. 

At first, it just seemed like Six was after med-x. Freeside junkies had been known to fake injuries or even inflict injuries upon themselves to try and get their fix. He would visit Arcade or one of the other doctor after one of his adventures and get patched. He never explicitly asked for med-x, but he never refused the wonderful painkiller. With the amount of that he got hurt, he was a regular at the fort. Between the money he paid for treatment and the donation of whatever he found while traveling, it more than made up for the cost spent on fixing him. 

It was rather calm evening when Arcade walked into Six's tent. Julie had taken the night off and left him to deal with any patients. Why she didn't believe he wasn't a people person was beyond him.“So, how did it happen this time?” inquired Arcade. It had become a habit between the two men. Arcade would ask what happened and Six was regale him with grand tales of his adventurers. “I fought a deathclaw by hand and won”. Arcade chuckled and smiled. “No, really. What happened?”. You don't believe me? I'm hurt.” Said Six feigning indignity. He gave him a pointed look before he set to work on relocating Six's wrist. His patient sighed. “Friends. They decided I looked like a good target. I took a swings at them and my wrist went out.” Courier Six didn't use guns. He didn't like them. When Arcade had pried, all he got was a mutter about “Too easy to make a mistake”. Instead, the courier made use of a power fist or a long metal staff. A pacifist didn't last long with wasteland, but somehow the he made it work.

A crunch sounded from his patient followed by a hiss of pain. “Thank you, Arcade. I don't know what I would do without you.”. Each time, Six would thank him. Each time Arcade would respond with “I'm just doing my job.”. After this exchange, he would always ask about his research. It was kind of the courier to take interest. Arcade would always respond it hadn't shown any success yet. It was a comfortable routine. That is, until the courier broke it. “Then why don't you come with me?” ask Six. A hopeful look on his face. “I have my research here.”, was the doctor's reply. “You've said it yourself. It isn't yielding any fruit. You might fight something new while we traveling. And besides,” Six put his hand Arcade's leg. Higher than what was just an innocent touch. “I need a good looking doctor to help take care of me in the big, bad wasteland.” 

Six was flirting with him. He was younger than Arcade, much younger. Early twenties at the absolute latest. He didn't want to be a crib robber. At least that what he wanted to think. The other thought that was the Six was a consenting adult and had every right to choose who he did or did not want to be. 'A possible adult with possible brain damage. Impaired decision making.' nagged Arcade's conscience. 'Then he needs someone to keep an eye on him. If nothing else, then you can observe him. People don't often survive gunshots to the head. Yes, it's strictly for medical reasons.' At least that how Arcade rationalized it to himself. “Overt flirtation will get you everywhere, you know.” Six beamed. “So, that's a yes?” Arcade nodded. “I will join you. As long as you don't do anything stupid like help the legion.” A serious look over took his patients face replacing his smile. “I will never help the legion. People aren't meant to be slaves”. “Well then” , said Arcade “Where to?”. Six's smiled returned. “Westside. It seems like it could use our help”. 

If Arcade had realized what the courier would get himself into, he would have added more supplies to his doctor's bag. A lot more.

Good God that courier was either the luckiest or most unfortunate bastard in the Mojave. Arcade hadn't decided yet.


End file.
